


a woman’s best friend is her blood

by ruiconteur



Series: begins as a lump in the throat [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Feminist Themes, Gen, Poetry, Slam Poetry, i’m back on that feminist juice fellas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiconteur/pseuds/ruiconteur
Summary: there is a saying that goes like this:a woman’s first bloodcomes not frombetween her legs, but frombiting her tongue.
Series: begins as a lump in the throat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694134
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	a woman’s best friend is her blood

**Author's Note:**

> in which i bitch about men because i am tired and angry

there is a saying that goes like this:  
a woman’s first blood  
comes not from  
between her legs, but from  
biting her tongue.

a pseudo-period, if you will—  
a caesura that comes much too soon in  
the language of a woman’s voice. a woman’s tongue  
bleeds all the words she cannot say,  
an enjambement in  
court-room silences and  
darkened-street tensions and  
why can’t you just shut up and smile, bitch.

and you bear it like the women before  
you bore disdain and condescension  
as a too-worn steel coat,  
your shoulders a wall with an  
uneven foundation under the weight of  
their patronisation. because a woman’s first blood comes  
when a man tells her to sit down, _girl_ , and keep quiet,  
let the big boys talk business.

a woman’s blood speaks a language  
all women instinctively know—  
something unholy,  
something ineffable,  
something writhing under the cold glare of the moon  
that cannot be let loose. a woman’s blood is  
the end of the world, an apocalypse of  
rot-black ribaldry and cankerous crudity  
that we bite into our tongues before

it can be heard. _we_ , women, can’t be heard.  
we have to stay unblemished,  
pretty in porcelain, lily-white,  
a disillusioned dream, dream girl,  
delicate and fragile as a withered flower, until  
our words curl up in our throats like  
half-formed caterpillar-butterfly abominations  
not yet released from the chrysalis  
of our thoughts.

because a woman’s voice is the clean remix of an elegy  
men don’t want to know the truth of—  
something superficial, something that won’t  
scandalise, something suitably decorous.  
and god forbid a woman’s voice be used  
for anything but what  
a man says it can. god forbid  
_anyone_ be made uncomfortable by a woman’s truth.

and what makes men more uncomfortable than  
a woman’s blood? than the blood that stains our bones  
with voiceless truths, our tongues with  
less-than-polite anything, our bodies with all the  
temerity we have been forced to restrain,  
coiled inside of us like a corded leash  
of shame  
or anger  
or wariness. it’s been there for so long

it’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](https://ruiconteur.tumblr.com) or [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ruiconteur/)!


End file.
